


No One Proposes to Anyone in this Story

by Im_All_Teeth



Series: One-Shots: Dramione [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 23:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_All_Teeth/pseuds/Im_All_Teeth
Summary: "She heard it from Blaise who heard it from his mother who heard it from my mother's hairdresser that I had asked my mother for her mother's engagement ring because I was planning on proposing to someone." In which Draco does not propose to Hermione. One-shot.





	No One Proposes to Anyone in this Story

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to fanfiction.net in 6/24/2014 and cleaned up for reposting here today. Thanks for reading, friends.

When Pansy stands to leave, he does not move to stop her. He never moves to stop her; never cares if she goes and cares even less if she feels the need to return. She slams the door so hard the doorframe rattles, and he sips his vodka- straight, in a whiskey tumbler-and inhales the soothing smells of leather and polished wood without the cloying scent of her perfume. He doesn't stand to see her out—if he rewarded her behavior with basic courtesy, she'd be picking out a wedding gown by the end of the week. 

"Sometimes I think that you don't ever see me. Like we're both on Draco Malfoy's team and neither of us are on mine." She'd said before storming out, too keen to act out her emotions to notice the mixed structure of her sentence. Emotional fervor over intellectual substance. As much a trademark characteristic as her careless indulgence.

Draco cares, though. Draco notices, and cares, and would have structured his sentence differently—better—if their positions had been reversed. But there was another difference: Draco Malfoy would never have forced his way into the Parkinson estate to dramatically monologue about what a terrible friend she was. There were owls for that. 

He settles back into his leather chair. It is older than he is, worn comfortable by generations of Malfoys past, and half of a matching set. The other one is turned at a complementary angle toward the fireplace. Between them, there is a small mahogany table. Upon the mahogany table is a single candle and a sweating bottle of expensive muggle vodka. Beside it, orange in the glow of the fireplace, is a tumbler that would be a perfect twin for his, if not for the faint smudge of lipstick along its rim. This, Malfoy Manor's second-best library is, both in terms of comfort and ambiance, the first-best room in the house.

Draco drinks. His tongue thinks of the burn of the liquor like water, and he is very thirsty. It is snowing outside, but he is not sure how he knows this. A sixth sense, then. A bit of clairvoyance.

No—not clairvoyance. Just a general understanding of English weather. When he took tea in the greenhouse, it had already been snowing, and the monotone-grey of the sky spoke of a storm that wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than a blizzard.

He wonders when Pansy will come back. He hopes it will not be soon. He knows it will happen eventually.

She does not live in his home. She has no reason to ever really come to his home. They have never been married, or lovers, or family. They've never even been friends. He would, for instance, never trust Pansy with a secret, but that is not for want of trying on Pansy's part. She shows up, every few months or so, inspired by some recent soundbite of gossip to try to rekindle a fire that was never lit.

He goes to take another sip of his vodka but finds his glass empty. He considers for a moment, then switches his empty glass for the half-full one on the table. 

When he takes a sip, he aligns his mouth over the lipstick stain. It isn't even the ghost of a ghost of a kiss—too indirect for significance—but a thrill runs through him anyway. 

The wood in the fireplace snaps. It sounds like applause.

"Is she gone, then?" Asks a voice from the doorway, brittle with annoyance.

Draco takes another sip and does not turn his head.

"Why, yes, Hermione. She is gone," Hermione says, affecting a deep, nasally voice. "And might I say that I am awfully sorry to have cut our lovely evening of booze and books short in order to shoot the breeze with my old racist mate."

Draco's smirk only deepens as he detects a note of jealousy in her voice. "Is that really what I sound like to you, Granger?" He drawls and presses the edge of the tumbler into his bottom lip, rolls the cold glass from side to side.

"And the mute man speaks! I take Pansy didn't bother sucking your soul out this time, then?" She marches into Draco's line of sight, her arms folded across her chest and her hair expanding. He marvels at her hair. When they were children, he'd mistaken it for bad grooming, but he's seen her combing it out in the evening, he knows how amenable it can be when brushed across a pillow while she sleeps. He has no proof that its size is magically linked to her moods, but an absence of evidence is never to be confused with evidence of absence. If he buried his fingers it it right now, dragging the dull half-moons of his nails across her scalp and tipping her face toward his, would it expand or contract? Is Hermione too angry for seduction, or just annoyed enough to knot her fists in his shirt and dig her blunt little teeth into his shoulder?

Mentally, he wills her to come closer, to lean over him. 

But, alas, even if he is clairvoyant he is not, it seems, telekinetic.

"What are you smiling at?" She snaps. Alcohol and anger have slapped pink across her cheeks. Her lipstick is faded in the center but still bright, unabashed red at the edges.

Which is how, more or less, Draco realizes he was smiling. "Nothing." He takes another sip.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "What did she want?" Hermione's voice is like bricks in the winter- unflinching, cold, and eager to break your face in. Her eyes flick away from his, toward the table. "Did she drink my vodka, or did I?"

"Neither." 

At the word, Hermione's clever eyes snap to the glass he's still pressing against his mouth. Intellectual substance to match the depth of her emotional fervor. Never careless. The comparison isn't even fair. "You're impossible," she informs him, but she settles into her usual seat. She picks up his abandoned glass, turning it between her long, thin fingers.

Draco empties Hermione's glass and leans over the table and picks up the vodka bottle. The world sloshes sideways when he does, and he chuckles.

Hermione, holding over her glass out for a refill, grins back. "You're drunk," she accuses.

"Nonsense," he lies smoothly, unscrewing the bottle's cap. It's cold against his palm.

"Just because it's muggle doesn't mean it isn't going to knock you on your ass, Draco Malfoy."

Draco bought the most expensive bottle in the muggle liquor store for two reasons. One: To dazzle—and seduce—Hermione with his knowledge of all things muggle and his embarrassing wealth. Two: To get well and truly shitfaced. Pansy's sudden appearance was an instant mood-killer, but he is still confident he can at least achieve the latter.

"So what did Pansy want?" She accepts the glass he hands her with a nod.

"She wanted to tell me," he replies slowly and stops. He should not say what he is going to say next, but the vodka is settling in his stomach like fire or courage. He shakes his head. The world tips. "To terrible people." He holds out his glass.

She clinks hers against his and then takes a sip when he does. "Well? Are you going to tell me or am I going to have to figure it out for myself?"

That's the thing about Hermione Granger: An unanswered question is just a challenge. If he doesn't answer, she will do as much as she threatens. Now or never, then. Pansy has forced his hand and he is too drunk to think of anything better to tell her than the truth. He downs the rest of his vodka in three quick gulps. "She heard from Blaise who heard it from his mother who heard it from my mother's hairdresser that I had asked my mother for her mother's engagement ring because I was planning on proposing to someone." He says it slowly, drawing out the words, leaning back in his chair like the conversation doesn't matter. 

Hermione blinks at him, her mouth slightly agape.

The fire snaps. It's the only sound.

Draco, suddenly very aware of how badly he may have just fucked up, wonders if he is not too inebriated to whip out his wand and obliviate her before she can laugh in his face.

Thankfully for all involved parties, Hermione recovers first. "And what did you tell her?"

"I said that yes, I had in fact inquired as to the location of that specific part of my inheritance because it is actually technically mine and that I may be planning on asking my girlfriend to consider a more serious alternative to dating but that I hadn't found the right time or," he licks his lips. His throat is very dry and, for once, he wishes that Hermione would perform her purpose on this planet and interrupt him, but she appears to be hanging on his every word, "or the nerve to ask her yet." He concludes lamely. He wishes for more vodka. A lot more. Enough to forget this painful conversation, and possibly whatever is going to come next. 

"Oh," says Hermione. 

Draco stares into the bottom of the tumbler. He'd refill it, but Hermione has barely touched hers and he might not have much left in the way of pride, but he can hang on to what he's got left of manners. "Indeed."

"So what's stopping you from asking now?"

Draco's head snaps up. She's staring at him, her eyes sparkling with firelight, her cheeks bright red and her glass forgotten in her hand. 

"Right now?" he clarifies and he is embarrassed to admit that his voice actually cracks.

Hermione shrugs, breaking eye contact. She stares into her glass, swirling the vodka. "Or whenever, really. Assuming, of course, that you are planning on asking your current girlfriend, as in the one sitting next to you right now, and not someone else." Her words trip over one another in an effort to leave her mouth first.

Draco leans back and ignores the feeling of his internal organs turning over. "Well," he says slowly, "for one thing, I don't know that she'd say yes. And-"

"She'll say yes," Hermione cuts in quickly.

Draco thinks his head has been wrapped in cotton and has completely detached from the rest of his body. His smile is so wide he thinks his face might rip. "And for another, the ring is presently traveling by owl post from Paris, and isn't set to arrive for another week."

Somewhere far away, a large clock chimes ten times.

"Oh." Says Hermione and then, again, "Oh." 

He has never heard her say that word so many times in such a concentrated period before.

She takes a dainty sip of her vodka. She grimaces. "Why on earth are we drinking this straight?"

"Is that not how it's done?"

She gives a one-shoulder shrug. "How should I know? I've never had vodka before in my life. My parents drink wine and I tend toward wizarding liquors."

"Well, cheers to new experiences, I guess." He holds out his empty glass for the toast.

Hermione leans forward and swaps her mostly-full glass for his empty one, clinks them together, and leans back in her seat.

With more vodka and his original glass, Draco smiles back at her. He is careful to align his lips with the faint smudge of her lipstick and indulges in the ghost of a ghost of a kiss when he takes a sip. "So you'll say yes, then?" He asks, just to confirm that they are actually talking about the same thing.

"Get the ring here first, Malfoy, and make an actual proposal. Then we'll talk." She tucks her feet up beneath her legs, leaning her cheek against the back of her chair. First one brown eye closes, and then the other. They both open and she blinks sleepily at him. "I believe we were discussing Vanity Fair before we were interrupted," she says.

When a small, happy sigh, Draco settles himself into his chair and follows the conversation wherever she leads it.


End file.
